Won't Spend Another Day Wondering
by poetzproblem
Summary: Santana realizes pretty suddenly that this could be it—the thing that either makes Quinn happy forever, or breaks her completely. Faberry. Sixth in the Don't Blink series. Following My Life Before Me Undone.


**Author's Note: **Sixth addition to the _Don't Blink_ series - following _My Life Before Me Undone. _Now ignoring canon Glee like a boss. Feedback is always appreciated.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Glee or the characters, I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.

* * *

**Won't Spend Another Day Wondering**_  
_

_I hope you don't mind if I fall asleep on your shoulder  
Now turn out the lights and let the night begin  
I hope it's alright if you're still mine when we're older  
Cause I won't spend another day wondering what might have been  
~Might Have Been, Kate Voegele_

* * *

Santana Lopez is pissed. It's pretty much her natural state of existence, but this week has been a special kind of crappiness that's completely pulverized her last nerve. On Monday, her psychopathic Pathology professor sprung a pop quiz that no one was prepared for. On Tuesday, some asshole crashed into her on the sidewalk, spilling his coffee down the front of her white silk blouse. On Wednesday, her moronic Human Anatomy lab partner managed to dump their cadaver on the floor. And on Thursday, she'd had to endure a phone lecture from her papi on financial responsibility after he'd opened his latest credit card bill. As if she hadn't absolutely needed that new, professional grade espresso maker! She's a first year med student, for fucks sake. She gots to get her caffeine on.

The only thing that was going to rescue the whole fucking week was the promise of Friday night and getting her groove on at _Henrietta Hudson_ with her homegirl, Quinn. Except Quinn is bailing on her—fucking bailing via last minute text message, to boot. Yeah, that's bullshit, and it's not happening. Santana Lopez does not get stood up.

She really needs tonight. She needs her tequila, and some obnoxiously loud music, and to press her body up against a fine female form with a hot, tight little ass, and dance all night long. Quinn is her wing woman—the cool, gorgeous blonde to her fiery, Latina spice. Quinn charms them with her pretty words and sweet smile, and Santana takes over with the sex and seduction. They're the perfect tag team at scoring women, even if Quinn usually leaves them hanging on the dance floor while Santana takes them home and gets them naked between her sheets.

She and Quinn haven't always been so simpatico. They definitely had their ups and downs when they were teens, but they've grown so much closer over the last six years, and Quinn is more like a sister now than a friend—a moody, over-intellectual, occasionally prudish, often annoying sister. They argue and snipe and call each other out on their bullshit, but they also have one another's backs.

It was Santana's shoulder that Quinn cried all over halfway through their freshmen year of college after she'd admitted out loud, for the first time, that she's more attracted to women than she is to men. And Santana had returned the favor two years ago, when her relationship with Brittany officially ended. Hell, she and Quinn had even managed to cohabitate for about four months without killing each other. Truth be told, Santana kind of misses having her as a roommate. She has to do her own cooking and cleaning again, and she pretty much sucks at it.

She's not in the mood to hang out alone in her apartment tonight, so she dons a tight, sexy little dress, grabs her purse, and catches a cab to the eastside. If Fabray's home, she's got a hell of a lot of explaining to do. If she isn't…well, Santana's going to raise some hell somewhere tonight.

When she gets to Quinn's building, she flies up the steps of the front stoop and presses hard on the buzzer, laying into it repeatedly until she finally hears the answering feedback of the intercom. "Who is it?" Quinn's disembodied voice asks.

"Who the hell do you think, blondie? Buzz me in."

There's a good thirty-second pause.

"Santana? Didn't you get my message?"

Her eyes narrow, "You mean that lame ass text where you tried to blow me off because _something came up_? Yeah, no…didn't get that."

There's a heavy sigh over the intercom, but the buzzer goes off and the door clicks open, and Santana lunges for it, stalking inside. Quinn's apartment is already open by the time Santana clears the landing to the second floor hallway, so she doesn't bother to knock. She slams inside with a scowl, ready to ream Quinn out, but her friend is nowhere to be seen.

Santana notices the open bedroom door, and she considers walking in, but thinks better of it. The last time that had happened, scary Quinn had come out to play. Santana got a pretty nice view before that, though. She tosses her purse on the table and settles onto Quinn's sofa, crossing her arms and her legs. "You know, you're kind of being rude here, Q-Tip."

"_I'm _being rude?" Quinn snaps, stumbling out of her room with a black high heel clutched in her hand. She glares at Santana, grabbing onto the doorjamb with her free hand as she awkwardly shoves her shoe onto her stocking clad foot. "_You're _the one that insisted on barging in on me when I told you that I had to cancel tonight."

Santana's brows inch up as she rakes her eyes over her friend. Quinn's hair is swept up into a stylish twist, and her body is poured into a short, sexy, little black dress. The neckline is modest, but the skirt might as well be painted on—it's so fucking tight—and it's molded to her very fine ass and showing off her legs with a teasing slit. Add in the fuck-me pumps and the flawless, smoky makeup, and it's pretty damned clear that Santana has been pushed aside for a hot date.

She whistles lowly, and her lips spread into a wicked grin as she watches Quinn scramble around, putting in her earrings and piling items into her purse. "So who's the prospective bed warmer?" she asks, snickering when Quinn freezes, and her pale complexion turns crimson.

"Don't be crass," Quinn admonishes lightly, but her tone is all wrong. In fact, her entire demeanor is less affronted bitchiness and more shy exaltation. Her lips are flirting with a pleased little smile, and her eyes are soft and sparkling. She looks drugged up.

"Shit, Quinn," Santana mutters. "Did you score a date with Emma Stone, or something? I've never seen you look so blissed out."

Quinn giggles—fucking giggles in this happy little girl way—and she's practically vibrating with joy. If Santana didn't know any better, she'd think...

"How would I even meet Emma Stone?" Quinn asks with an indulgent smile.

"Well, maybe Berry introduced you to someone awesome," Santana suggests, watching Quinn carefully, "like when you met that actress from the television show that you like—the musical one."

Quinn bites into her lip at the mention of Rachel's name, failing to disguise the smile, and her damn eyes are shining even brighter. Santana recognizes the expression, and she shakes her head, "You don't have a date at all, do you?" she groans in disappointment. "Tell me you _did not_ just cancel our evening of debauchery to go and drool over the midget again."

Quinn's face instantly hardens, "Don't call her that."

"Seriously? You've seen _West Side Story_ five times in two months," Santana complains.

Quinn's face flushes, and her eyes fall to the floor. "Six," she admits under her breath.

"You've got a problem, Quinn," she tells her friend seriously. Going to see Rachel's show on opening night was one thing—hell, Santana had been sitting right beside Quinn, beaming from ear to ear when Rachel had taken the stage—and she can even understand going back to see a second performance, after the cast settled in and got over their opening night jitters, but _six_ times? "Am I gonna hafta go full-on intervention on your ass?"

She expects to see the eyebrow arch, and the cold-bitch glare that Quinn perfected long ago and can still call up in a heartbeat. She expects to hear the tired old excuses about friendship and support and enjoying the arts and free tickets. She doesn't expect Quinn to laugh. "You really don't," she says with a wide, happy smile.

Santana tilts her head in confusion. The girl is just too damn happy today. It's weird. "So you do have a date?" she asks slowly, overwhelmed with the odd sensation that she's missing something.

Quinn nods, still grinning madly, "I do."

Okay, that's progress. "And you're not going to see Rachel's show?"

"I am," Quinn confirms, her smile not wavering in the slightest.

So much for progress. "Because that worked out so well the last time," Santana sneers with a roll of her eyes. "Here's a tip, Lucy Q—you don't take a woman you want to date to see a show starring the woman you've wanted to make lady babies with since high school."

"Rachel is my date," Quinn fires back. "We're having dinner together after the show."

"O-kay," Santana drawls, raising her eyes to the ceiling and muttering, "La chica está loca." She probably should have seen this coming. It used to be kind of amusing to watch Quinn nurse her crush on Rachel, but now it's just sad. She looks back at Quinn—who's still smiling dreamily—with assessing eyes. "I know you've been brooding for the last couple of weeks because Peter the Great is back in town, but dressing like sex on a stick for a friendly dinner isn't gonna make Rachel any less straight."

"She kissed me."

Santana blinks, replaying the words in her mind as she stares at the still euphoric Quinn, and drawing a complete blank in terms of comprehension. "Huh?"

Quinn nearly squeals—and it's fucking disconcerting to see her acting like this—as she picks up a throw pillow from her sofa and hugs it to her chest before she collapses down into the cushions next to Santana. "Rachel kissed me," she repeats with awe coloring her words. "Yesterday in the park. We were…we were just sitting and talking like we always do, and then she asked me to go to the Tonys with her, and she told me that," and here Quinn giggles again, rocking forward and shaking her head before she looks over at Santana with happy tears swimming in her eyes, "she has _feelings _for me—_romantic_ feelings—and then she kissed me."

Santana's eyes widen, because Quinn isn't bullshitting her. "No. Fucking. Way."

Quinn laughs and nods, "Very fucking way. We kissed," she says again, obviously loving that she gets to say those words as much as she probably loves the memory of the actual kiss. "Then she bought me dinner and…and we came back here, and just…talked all night," she gushes, and a pretty, pink blush stains her cheeks.

Santana has a feeling that they did more than talk, if the look on Quinn's face is anything to go by. She's still having trouble wrapping her brain around this—the fact that Rachel made a move on Quinn, and Quinn is finally getting to act on the feelings she's been trying to bury all these years.

She'd solved the _Quinn is gay and in love with Rachel Berry_ equation by the time their senior year of high school had rolled around. She'd recognized too much of herself in her friend to believe that Quinn wasn't hiding some deep seeded emotional repression. She generally had a pretty awesome gaydar, too, so yeah—she hadn't been surprised when Quinn had finally come out to her. She'd found it pretty damned hilarious that Quinn had actually believed that she was successfully hiding her lady loving tendencies from Santana.

The Rachel part—well, that's been rough. Rachel fucking Berry. The girl that bounced from leading man to leading man, looking for that perfect happy ending. It would almost have been better if she and Quinn had never become friends at all. At least then, Quinn could have moved on, but _no_…Rachel just had to be all sweet and thoughtful and best friend-y, keeping Quinn hanging on to that tiny sliver of hope. Which, apparently, is bearing fruit—Berries, to be exact, Santana muses with a wicked grin.

"Wow. So Berrylicious ain't so straight after all?"

Santana has always wondered about that. Rachel never pings much—except when it comes to Quinn. Santana has never, ever said it out loud—she's been very careful to never get Quinn's hopes up any higher than they already were—but she never could say with any certainty that Rachel wasn't at least a little bit gay for Fabray.

Quinn's smile slips, and she suddenly looks pensive. She fidgets in her seat and drags a perfectly manicured finger—sexy black polish and all—back and forth across the edge of the pillow. "I…I guess not," she says quietly, anxious gaze meeting Santana's as she runs her tongue over her lips in a familiar nervous habit. "To be honest, I'm still a little worried about that part," she admits slowly, "but she...Rachel loves me, Santana," Quinn whispers reverently, blissed out smile firmly back in place as she hugs the pillow tighter. "And when she kisses me," she trails off, and Santana can practically see Quinn's mind skipping off into the GayBerry fields forever.

"You're fucking glowing," she muses, and Quinn laughs and nods. She's never seen Quinn like this before. Yeah, she's seen happy Quinn. She's even seen Quinn in love—or as in love as someone can be with their second choice—but this is the first time that Santana has seen Quinn's eyes look so incredibly clear, and her shoulders so relaxed and free from the weight of sadness and regret that she's been carrying around for years. She looks like she could be fifteen again, young and hopeful and ready to conquer the world.

Santana feels a telling sting in her eyes, but she ignores it, growling, "C'mere," as she opens her arms. Quinn tosses the pillow aside, shifting across the sofa and accepting Santana's hug. "I'm happy for you," she whispers into Quinn's ear. "It's about time Berry got her head out of her ass."

Quinn gives her a hard squeeze—in both affection and warning—before she pulls back. "Better late than never," she murmurs, still grinning.

Santana lightly slaps the cushion and stands with a flourish, smoothing down the wrinkles in her mini-dress. "Come on. Let's go."

Quinn's eyebrows furrow, "Go where?"

"To the show," Santana answers with a roll of her eyes. She glances at her watch. "Curtain's in, like, an hour and a half, right?" She has the satisfaction of seeing Quinn's eyes dart to the clock on her wall before they widen in horror. She's up and off the couch in a heartbeat, scrambling for her purse. How freaking adorable. "Call Berry and tell her that you'll be using another ticket," she instructs, and Quinn freezes in place. "I'm assuming she's holding one for you, and you didn't actually _buy _your seat. Again," she adds with a smirk.

Five shows (or rather, _six_) and Quinn had only asked Rachel for her VIP seating twice—once on opening night, and once for a disastrous first date with a cool and classy blonde last month. Hiding a crush can be pretty costly.

"Oh, no," Quinn utters with increasing horror. "No. _We're_ not going anywhere, Santana," she stresses, waving a hand back and forth between them. "_I'm_ going on a date with Rachel—the woman I'm in love with. _You_ are going home, or clubbing, or whatever," she dismisses, circling to the door and placing her hand on the knob, clearly intent on ejecting Santana from her apartment.

"Well, _I'm_ not going clubbing because _you're_ bailing on me," Santana reminds her testily, crossing her arms and leaning casually against the back of the sofa. If Quinn thinks she's disappearing quietly, she can think again. "But I'll let it go this time, because I'm awesome, and you know, I've been waiting six fucking years for you to finally make a move on Berry, and apparently the straight girl's still got more game than you."

Quinn winces, removing her hand from the door and self-consciously rubbing at her arm. "Could you maybe stop saying that she's straight?" she whines. "She's...flexible, apparently."

Santana snickers, mouth quirking into a suggestive grin. "Yeah, I imagine she is."

Quinn scowls, crossing her arms in annoyance. "You're a perv."

"Just keeping it real," Santana defends. "Seriously, Quinn. I really am happy for you, but you're my friend. I'm not about to let Rachel get all up on you without making sure she's serious."

Santana realizes pretty suddenly that this could be it—the thing that either makes Quinn happy forever, or breaks her completely. She's seen Quinn get her heart bruised every time Berry flitted off to the next guy, and she knows it will be so much worse if it happens again—after Quinn gets a real taste of happiness. She'd hate to have to go all Lima Heights Adjacent on Rachel after all these years. They're kind of friends now.

"Do you think we haven't already discussed that?" Quinn asks her heatedly. "My God, Santana. I appreciate that you're feeling some strange protective instinct here, but this is _Rachel _we're talking about. She may be frustratingly oblivious at times, but she wouldn't ever risk our friendship if her feelings for me weren't real." Quinn's voice is forceful, right up until the very last word, and then it's like she just can't stop herself from smiling, silently repeating what she said and flushing with joy because it _is_ real.

"Dios mio, the stars in your eyes are nauseating," Santana mutters.

Quinn smirks, "You're just jealous."

Santana sighs, admits, "maybe," and swallows down the bitter taste of it, because—yeah, she is. So fucking jealous. She can't stop her thoughts from turning to Brittany. It's been two years, and it still hurts like hell sometimes.

They'd tried, God knows they had, and they'd been happy for awhile, but college was different than high school, and there was no glee club, and no cheerios to keep them together twenty-four seven. At the end of the day, they'd had less and less to talk about, and sex could only occupy a person for so long. They'd drifted apart, even while they were living and sleeping side by side.

And then there were so many women who were out and proud and so fucking tempting, and so many guys who wanted in Brittany's pants. When fidelity started to become a struggle for both of them, they'd known it was time to take a break.

Most days, she doesn't regret it. She's focused on school, and she knows that things would have only gotten worse if she and Brit had tried to stay together. Brittany is in Los Angeles now, chasing her passion in dance and touring with Lady Gaga. Lady fucking Gaga! She's proud of her girl—even if Brittany isn't really hers anymore.

Sometimes fate takes you where you need to be, even if it isn't exactly where you planned to go. Hell, Quinn and Rachel are proof of that. If she's lucky, Santana's destiny will find her, too, when she least expects it. Until then, she's going to enjoy the ride.

Shrugging off those annoying, too-deep-for-a-Friday-night thoughts, she picks up her purse and digs out her phone. Quinn's grin disappears, "What are you doing?"

"Calling up your girl for an extra ticket," Santana explains, turning her back on Quinn before the blonde can lunge for her.

"Santana! Give me that," she demands, snaking her hand around with unexpected agility and grasping the phone, despite Santana's best efforts to block her. "You are not coming with me on my date," she growls, stepping away with prize in hand.

"Look, technically, you're going to be watching Rachel work, and your date doesn't start until after the show, so me going with you isn't getting in the way of anything but you making moony eyes at the stage," she points out with a wrinkled nose. She's seen Quinn do the moony eyes, and it's epically comical in its obviousness. How Rachel has been so unaware of it for so long is really beyond Santana's comprehension skills.

"Anyway, you owe me, bitch. Not only are you bailing on our plans tonight, but now that you and shorty are going all sappily ever after on me, I'm gonna be permanently out a wing woman."

Quinn's expression goes soft with understanding, and Santana bristles under her sympathetic gaze. "It's not like we're never going to hang out again," she assures her.

"Won't be the same," Santana says with a shrug.

Quinn puffs out her cheeks, and hands Santana her phone back before she picks up her own. She presses the speed dial with her thumb, and lifts the phone to her ear. It takes less than fifteen seconds for the wide smile to stretch across Quinn's face.

"Hey, Rach. I'm sorry to bother you before your show. Hmm, yeah…me, too. I…I can't wait," she husks, and Santana's eyebrows arch in interest at the low timbre in her friend's voice. Quinn blushes scarlet and glances away from Santana's knowing eyes in embarrassment. "Actually, I was wondering if you have another ticket available tonight. I kind of forgot that I'd already made plans with Santana, and," she stops, frowning slightly. "Well, I was thinking about other things at the time," she defends. "No, we are _not _postponing our date," she says forcefully, and Santana snickers. Quinn reaches over and punches her shoulder, eyes snapping with annoyance. "She'll go away after the show. Yeah, I told her. No, she doesn't think that," Quinn rolls her eyes and smiles, "She's happy for us, Rachel. Well, she may do that, but it's only because she cares. Yeah, I will. See you soon."

Santana is grinning when Quinn hangs up, and the blonde does her best to glare through the smile that she can't seem to stifle. "I swear, if you do anything to embarrass me tonight."

"Best behavior," Santana swears, lifting her hands in surrender. She really doesn't want to cause any problems for her friend—_friends. _She just really wants to see them together—_t__ogether_, together. She wasn't kidding before. Six years is a damn long time to be subjected to the constant sexual tension that's always buzzing in the air between Quinn and Rachel. Hell, it's been closer to nine years if Santana counts back to freshman year of high school when the insults were flying left and right so that Quinn could vent her lust in a more socially acceptable way.

Quinn has come so far since they were stupid kids—and she's finally getting her girl—and she looks so happy—and shit, Santana is tearing up and there's not damn thing she can do to stop it. Quinn's eyes go wide in the seconds before Santana lunges forward and wraps her up into a fierce hug. "I'm j-just so h-happy for you, Q," she sobs, not even caring that all her defenses have basically crumbled into dust.

Quinn's arms flail for a moment before they come to rest lightly on Santana's back, and she chuckles softly, returning the hug. When they finally part, Quinn's cheeks are wet with tears, and she shakes her head and gently brushes beneath her eyes with her fingertips. "God, Santana, now I have to fix my makeup," she complains with a watery laugh.

Santana wipes away her own tears and looks Quinn over, taking in the red eyes and smudged eyeliner. She nods in agreement. "Yeah, you really do."

Irritation colors Quinn's expression, and she testily mumbles, "I swear, if we're late," as she sprints into her bathroom.

Santana chuckles, retrieving her compact from her purse and checking her own face. Yeah, still flawless. Praise the lord for waterproof mascara. A few little touch ups, and she's good to go. Quinn, however, is still fussing. Santana wants to laugh at how vain she's being, but she actually thinks it's kind of endearing.

It's another five minutes before Quinn reappears, perfectly put together once again. She catches Santana's measuring gaze, and runs a nervous hand over the skirt of her dress. "How do I look?"

Santana smirks, "Like someone who's getting lucky tonight."

"I'm not…we haven't," Quinn stammers as her face flushes pink, "We're not rushing into the physical aspect of our relationship."

"Not rushing?" Santana repeats incredulously. "Fucking glaciers have sped by the two of you."

"Rachel has never been with a woman, Santana," she needlessly reminds her. "I'm not about to throw her down on my bed and rip her clothes off on our first official date."

"What if she throws you down?"

Quinn's eyes flash, and her tongue pokes out to moisten her lips, and Santana knows that—just for that brief moment—she's imagining the scenario play out. She recovers fairly quickly, and huffs, "Is sex the only thing you ever think about?"

"Not the only thing. Just, like, one of the top three," Santana admits, laughing when Quinn's eyebrow inches up. "Okay…top two," she amends. "Come on, Lucy Q," she grabs her purse again and tucks it under her arm, "lets go watch your juicy little Star-Berry be all pretty and witty and gay."

"Those aren't the lyrics," Quinn argues with a grin, picking up her own purse and grabbing her keys.

Santana wraps an arm around Quinn's waist and gives her quick side hug, "They are in my version."

They flag down a taxi because there's no way Quinn's doing any heavy walking in those wicked heels, and they arrive at the Palace Theater with plenty of time to spare. When Quinn walks up to collect their tickets at the box office window, the attendant passes them to her along with a single red rose. The lovesick puppy look is back in force, and Santana has to give Rachel props for the added touch.

Santana isn't ashamed to admit that she's become a little bit of a theater fan since she's been in New York. Okay, maybe since glee club. It's in no way attributable to her acquaintance with Rachel Berry and Kurt Hummel—like at all—and she will argue the point with anyone who claims otherwise. It isn't a sacrifice to watch _West Side Story _again. She thinks she made a better Anita, but whatever. At least the actress who plays her is hot. Too bad she's straight. She may have already asked Rachel about that after opening night.

As much as Santana enjoys the show, she's getting just as much enjoyment from watching the predicted reappearance of Quinn's moony-eyed and adoring gaze as her eyes follow Rachel across every inch of the stage. It's totally turned on at full power, and Santana has the shocking realization that Quinn's former transparency really was her version of hiding her feelings. There is absolutely no attempt at subtly present tonight.

When the curtain call comes around, Quinn is immediately on her feet, applauding her little heart out with all the enthusiasm that made her a top-notch cheerleader once upon a time. Rachel steps through the line of her costars and takes a graceful bow, and then her eyes zero in on Quinn. She unabashedly blows a little kiss to her, and Quinn's smile grows impossibly wider. Santana can just tell that they're going to be one of _those _couples. Hell, they already were—Rachel just hadn't gotten the memo until recently.

The curtain finally closes, and Quinn settles back into her seat to wait out the mass exodus from the theater, and Santana reluctantly sits with her. She hates waiting. Quinn's lost in some Berry-induced, post-eargasmic bliss, twirling the rose between her fingers with a dreamy smile.

"So, that was surprisingly more enjoyable the second time," Santana confesses, hoping to fill the silence and bring Quinn back from la-la-land. "Although decidedly less hilarious than when Riff tripped and fell on his own knife on opening night."

Quinn hums in agreement, but doesn't offer any other commentary. Santana sighs, tapping her nails against the armrest and impatiently bouncing her leg.

"You can leave if you want," Quinn tells her after another minute of her fidgeting.

Santana clicks her tongue, shaking her head in refusal. "Nuh uh. Not that easy, Fabray. Granted, Rachel scored some points with the rose and the kiss, but I'm still giving her the talk."

Quinn's eyes widen, "No talk! There will be no talking," she commands. "You promised to behave, Santana. You can pop in and say hello, and tell her that you're happy for us, but that's all. No third degree, no guilt trips, and—for God's sake, please—no sexual innuendos."

"No fun," Santana grumbles, receiving another light punch on her shoulder from a pissy Quinn.

"You. Promised," she repeats forcefully.

"You know," Santana drawls evilly, "Technically, I never said the words 'I promise' at anytime tonight."

"Santana!"

"Quinn!" she mimics childishly.

A polite "Excuse me" cuts into their staring contest, and they both jump a little, simultaneously glancing up at the middle-aged gentleman standing in front of their seats. "Ms. Berry has asked me to escort you backstage, Ms. Fabray."

"Thank you, George," Quinn says kindly, shooting a chastising glare at Santana, before she grabs her purse and stands up.

"Okay, yeah…on a first name basis with the ushers. You don't need an intervention at all," Santana snarks, following Quinn out of her seat.

"Stage manager," the man corrects irritably.

Santana mockingly mouths the words behind the guy's back, and Quinn rolls her eyes in exasperation. "Rachel introduced us _both _to George on opening night, Santana."

"Like I remember," she shrugs, "No offense, Georgie boy."

George ignores her, and Quinn drops her head, lifting a hand to her eyes to cover her embarrassment. "Why did I let you come with me?" she mutters, and Santana only smiles.

George leads them around the front of the stage and out of the auditorium, through a little door marked _Staff Only_, and up a short, narrow staircase. They emerge into the hustle and bustle of the backstage crew, packing up props and costumes. Two noisy hallways later, they're stopped in front of the dressing room bearing a giant gold star emblazoned with the name _Rachel Berry_. George raps lightly, announces their presence, and gives a knowing little nod to Quinn before he excuses himself.

There is some muffled shuffling from inside the room, followed by an audible bang (and possibly a bitten off curse.) Quinn frowns in concern, but Santana grins and suppresses her laughter. If miss calm and cool as a Q-cumber was scrambling around her apartment like a madwoman, Santana can only imagine what the high-strung, high-energy, Berry scary diva must be doing right now.

The door swings open and Rachel is right there with a soft smile. Her hair is still a little damp at the ends, and curling more than usual, and her skin is glowing and accented with very little makeup. She still has a robe on, and Santana silently appreciates the way it gapes in just the right way. She's a lesbian with a healthy sex-drive—it's not like she's never checked Rachel out before. Luckily, Quinn doesn't notice her ogling because she completely forgets that Santana is even there the moment Rachel shyly whispers, "Hi." Quinn echoes the greeting, moving inside the room, and Santana follows, but before she can open her mouth to say a word, Rachel is rocking up onto her toes and kissing Quinn.

Holy fucking shit!

Santana is stunned—not because it's some hot and heavy make out, complete with dueling tongues, because it isn't, but it also isn't a quick little peck either. It's soft, and sensual, and...well, _loving_. No, she's stunned because it's _happening_. Quinn told her, obviously, but actually seeing it is something else entirely. Okay, so it is kind of hot—but mostly Santana is just so relieved that Quinn finally gets to have the thing she's been dreaming of for so long.

When Rachel releases her gentle hold on Quinn, she licks her lips and looks up through her lashes. Quinn makes this weird noise that sounds like a whimper—so completely uncool, and Santana smirks—and Rachel smiles, turning to Santana with dancing eyes and a hint of smugness. "Hello to you, too, Santana."

"Hello, Rachel," she purrs. "Do I get _my _kiss now?"

"Get your own girl," Quinn growls playfully, giving her a little push, as Rachel lets out a full-bodied laugh. Then she's flinging an arm out and placing a hand on Santana's shoulder, and it's easy for Santana to meet her halfway and give her a friendly hug—because they _are_ friends now and they've done this a couple of times before.

"It's about fucking time," she mumbles into dark hair, and she feels Rachel's laughter tremble through her.

"Language," Rachel chastises mildly.

"Screw that," Santana huffs, pulling back. "You're kind of an idiot, you know that, Berry?"

"Santana," Quinn hisses, instantly going into protective mode and moving closer to Rachel, wrapping an arm around her waist.

"It's okay, Quinn," Rachel promises her with a smile, placing her own hand over Quinn's where it rests on her hip so naturally that anyone would think they've been a couple for years. "I have been an idiot," she agrees, addressing Santana with a serious expression, "but I assure you that I've come to my senses, and I intend to devote myself wholly to Quinn—well, still partially to my career, of course, but every moment I'm not otherwise obligated to be on stage will belong entirely to Quinn."

Quinn smiles indulgently, and pulls Rachel closer, nuzzling her cheek a little before pressing a soft kiss against the skin beneath her lips. "I'm more than happy to share you with the stage, Rach. I love watching you up there."

"Oh, gag me," Santana mutters, but she can't help grinning at how perfect they look together. "I'm gonna step on outta here before my teeth rot from all the sickly sweetness."

"We love you, too, Santana," Quinn teases.

"Whatever," she grumbles, inching out the door before she makes a fool of herself by turning into a weeping mess and hugging them both again. She really needs a distraction from her (ugh!) sentimental feelings, so she smirks and tells them, "Feel free to have hot and dirty dressing room sex after I'm gone—you're already half-undressed for it, Rachel."

Rachel gasps and tugs the edges of her robe together, blushing furiously, while Quinn scowls at her. "Go home, Santana," she demands heatedly.

Santana's laughter rings out through the hallway, even as the door slams in her face. "Have fun tonight, chicas," she calls out over her shoulder as she starts walking, only to bump straight into a body coming from the other direction. "Hey, watch it," she snaps, stumbling a little as she tries to keep her balance.

"Sorry," the distinctly feminine voice says, "but you're the one who wasn't paying attention." Santana looks up into a pair of vivid green eyes. The face is slightly familiar, and after a few seconds, she places her as the actress who plays Rosalia. She's—really hot up close, and Santana gives her toned body an appreciative once over before she can stop herself. When her eyes come back up to the woman's gorgeous face, she sees a grin that clearly says she's been busted. "You're a friend of Rachel, right?"

"Yeah, Santana Lopez," she introduces herself, holding out a hand, and having it taken and held in a firm grasp.

"Jessica Foster," the woman says, running her thumb in a circle over the back of Santana's hand and setting off her gaydar at earthquake levels. "Rachel has a picture of you in her dressing room. Well, a picture of your glee club anyway. She's told us a ton of stories."

"Don't believe any of them," Santana warns, "unless they were about how unbelievably hot and talented I am, because those are all true."

Jessica smiles in interest. "You know, we almost met on opening night at _Lillie's_ bar, but Rachel dragged you off somewhere, and you never came back," she pouts.

Santana grins, because she remembers Rachel pulling her away that night, asking her to rescue Quinn from _some_ _woman-eating viper who wouldn't take no for an answer_—Rachel's exact words. The viper's name had been Connie, and she was a champion woman eater, all right. Santana had had no complaints. Thinking back on it now, she really should have seen Rachel's Quinn-loving epiphany coming a mile away.

"Well, better late than never," Santana purrs. "I was just thinking about stopping for a drink somewhere before calling it a night. Would you like to join me, Jessica?"

"I'd love to," she flirts back. "Just let me grab my bag." She saunters down the hall and ducks into another dressing room, and Santana watches the sway of her ass with much appreciation. She always has had a thing for dancers. Quinn and Rachel might not be getting lucky tonight, but she has a feeling that she's going to.

Yep, her shitty week is definitely going to end on a high note—and maybe some screaming of her name, too.

Things are looking up for Santana Lopez.


End file.
